


road to burn

by AndreyaHalms



Series: Super Van Vacation [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Canon-Typical Violence, He just has an alternative moral orientation, Identity Porn, M/M, Madara is not a villian, Misguided Assassination Attempts, Secret Identity, Some Humor, but only medicinally, enemies who are also lovers, gross old men who're really in love, the uchiha do soft drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26939947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreyaHalms/pseuds/AndreyaHalms
Summary: Madara's having a great day in the park with Sasuke, till his arch-nemesis decides to accuse him of kidnapping his own grandnephew.(The first work in this series focuses on another ship, which does not make an appearance in this story. It’s not necessary to read that work to understand or enjoy this one.)
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: Super Van Vacation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965739
Comments: 23
Kudos: 130





	road to burn

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. First of all - thanks for clicking!
> 
> 2\. Title from Road to Burn by 1000Mods
> 
> 3\. Some handwavey science involved, don't look too much into it pls.
> 
> 4\. For those who prefer visual aides while reading - Hashirama's superhero design is based on his usual red armoured shinobi uniform thing. Madara's is his Juubi version.

“Thank you, uncle,” Mikoto says, hair slipping out of her frenzied bun and looking a little wild around the eyes. “Kushina’s in labour and the babysitter has exams—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Madara says graciously.

“Can you pick Itachi from school too, please? I’ve informed the teachers. Again, the damn babysitter—”

“I will, princess,” Madara interrupts. “Go.”

Mikoto kisses him on the cheek and sprints away, somehow managing to keep her ankles intact in the sharp business stilettos she wears as she makes a truly gravity-defying turn down the street. Incredible. A real Uchiha, that one.

Madara looks at the newly-acquired infant in his arms curiously.

Sasuke looks back, decides he finds Madara’s face offensive and promptly lets out a wordless howl of fury.

Madara’s jaded heart instantly gets reduced into a pathetic pile of familial goo.

* * *

Madara forces some food into Sasuke, checks his diaper, straps him into his pram, and takes him to the park.

The kid’s still screaming. Good. It’s important to let the world know if you’re displeased by the way it works. History is not made by people who settle for the status quo.

He’s walking down the path, smiling lovingly as he appreciates the dappled sunlight on Sasuke’s angry little face, when he hears someone clear their throat behind him in a particularly authoritative manner.

He freezes mid-step. He knows that sound.

He resumes walking, subtly picking up his pace.

“Excuse me, sir,” his arch-nemesis says.

Madara rips Sasuke out of the pram, hugs his grandnephew to his chest, and runs like their life depends on it.

* * *

Ten seconds later, he finds himself pinned to the ground, thick vines around his arms and legs.

“Give him back!” Madara snarls at his captor. He could put up a fight, but he doesn’t want the young Uchiha to get hurt. “This is a new low, even for you. Targeting defenceless children? Honestly?”

“For the last time, sir,” the vigilante/superhero who likes to call himself Lord First says sternly. “Where are this child’s parents?”

“I’m not fucking telling you, you asshole! Also, why the fuck are you calling me sir?”

He doesn’t know _how_ First found out about his civilian identity, but he’d rather gouge out his own eyes than have anyone use him to harm his family. Civilian identities were supposed to be sacrosanct in their line of work, no matter what side you were on. Madara didn’t think First would stoop to blackmail and coercion, but maybe he had been turned by his demon of a partner, who liked to call himself Lord Second. Pathetic. Why would you go around announcing your inferiority to the world?

(Madara was simpler, preferring to go by the nickname _The Ghost,_ complete with the article.)

In First’s arms, Sasuke lets out a truly impressive wail and waves his tiny fists threateningly, smacking First in his masked face and knocking it slightly askew. The man startles and rocks him back and forth gently while making patronising cooing noises, which only serves to infuriate the infant further. Madara allows himself a brief moment to let his heart swell with pride.

First looks at the baby in his arms and then at the restrained man on the ground, both of whom have eerily similar looks of self-righteous outrage on their faces. He bends down, all six feet and four inches of him, so that he’s mask-to-face with Madara.

“Do I know you?”

* * *

“I’m sorry,” First says. “I am truly, genuinely sorry, Mr. Uchiha.”

“Okay,” Madara replies stiffly, with Itachi’s little backpack slung around one shoulder. Itachi trails behind them with a surprisingly docile Sasuke in his skinny arms.

“It was an honest misunderstanding.”

“All right.”

“Please, I must make it up to you somehow.”

“There’s no need.”

“I insist.”

“Leave me and my family alone.”

“If that is what you want,” First says politely. Madara can’t see his face under his mask, but there’s something like disapproval colouring his voice, as if _Madara_ had been the one going around accosting people in the park and accusing them of kidnapping babies.

“I do,” Madara assures.

“Very well, then. Please feel free to reach out to me if you need my help.”

“I won’t.”

Lord First hesitates and finally breaks away from their little group, and melds into the nearest tree.

* * *

Izuna laughs his ass off when Madara tells him about it.

“Oh my God,” he wheezes as they sprint through the bank, carrying a bag of cash each. “He really didn't know who you were?”

“He’s dumber than he looks,” Madara confirms.

“He didn’t know you were _you_ and he didn’t know you were the Ghost?”

“Nope.”

There’s a shout from the corridor. Madara zips open the bags and picks out the dye packs.

“Carry on,” Madara says, handing his bag to Izuna. “I’ll meet you when I’m done.”

“Don’t have too much fun,” Izuna says and disappears into the shadows.

Madara sprints towards the back entrance, setting a few things on fire on the way.

“Give up, Ghost,” First yells earnestly from behind him. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. We both know you’d prefer the easy way.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Madara yells back. He exits the building and throws the two dye packs at First’s face just as they detonate.

* * *

* * *

Madara’s leaving the studio where he had been conducting his biannual glass sculpting workshop when he gets accosted from the back (as a civilian) for the second time in as many days.

“Excuse me,” a vaguely familiar voice says. “Is that you, Madara? Madara Uchiha?”

Madara turns around and finds himself face-to-face with a tall man with broad shoulders and thick, slightly graying hair twisted up in an artful bun. The man starts to beam, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes crinkling, and Madara’s brain inexplicably replaces the man’s graceful hairstyle with a truly horrendous bowl cut.

“Hashirama?” Madara gapes.

“Madara!” Hashirama exclaims happily. “It _is_ you! What are the chances?”

“What—” Madara chokes, and verbalizes the first coherent thought that manages to form in his head. “Your hair—”

“Oh,” Hashirama says, grinning even wider and flashing his even, white teeth. His hand drifts to the whimsical bangs framing his face. “I started growing it and guess I never stopped? But look!” He laughs and reaches out and lifts a chunk of Madara’s bristly mane. “You’ve grown yours out too! What a happy coincidence, right?”

The world telescopes and suddenly, Madara is sixteen again, raging with hormones and sloppily making out behind the bleachers with the pimple-ridden captain of his high school basketball team.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hashirama invites Madara for lunch. Madara agrees. Conversation flows like finely aged wine.

“When did you move back?” Madara asks.

“Two years ago, actually,” Hashirama says. “I got offered the Director’s position at LEAF Biotech. I didn’t know you had moved back too.”

“Dad passed away some time back,” Madara says. “I’m in charge of the family estate now.”

The owner of the white-tablecloth establishment they’re in personally comes out to greet Madara and insists that the meal be on the house. Madara, the upstanding member of society that he is, imperiously insists that while the generosity is appreciated, it is unnecessary.

Hashirama looks suitably impressed at the exchange.

 _"Wow,”_ Hashirama breathes, eyes shining. “Look at you! You’ve matured so much!”

Madara’s sure that Hashirama’s pulling his leg a little bit, but he does take heed of Hashirama’s words and looks.

(He looks, but not at himself.)

* * *

It’s a little funny how easily they fall back into old patterns.

Hashirama is single—

“Divorced,” he laughs sheepishly and Madara grits his teeth. “But we’re still friends. You _have_ to meet Mito though, she’s wonderful!” 

—and says that with the time he spends on his job, he doesn’t really have the time to navigate new relationships (Madara stops gritting his teeth).

“What about old ones then,” Madara says with a smirk, because even without the family superpowers, he’s always been good at reading through the vacuous front Hashirama likes to put up to escape responsibility or commitment.

Hashirama titters, but his eyes gleam with something like interest.

* * *

Madara reaches out. Hashirama reaches back. And they meet, somewhere in the middle, like they’ve always done.

But still. That doesn’t necessarily mean...

* * *

...Yeah, no, Madara realises a few months later, with Hashirama’s head between his legs, and his long, smooth hair spilling over his bare shoulders. It definitely, undoubtedly means interest.

(Actually, it’s more than just interest, if he’s being honest.)

* * *

They do fall into old patterns, but not really. Some things are different. They’re older now, more experienced with life. Mellowed out as they meander through middle age; slower, quieter, more in tune with and understanding of the things that really matter in life. More considerate of each others’ priorities.

Madara doesn't want to jinx it, but it's— It’s better.

* * *

Madara is at an ikebana exhibition with Hashirama one weekend when Izuna calls him. Madara ignores the first two calls, but excuses himself the third time his phone rings.

“What,” he snaps, ducking into the bathroom stall. “I’m on a date.”

“Are you having sex,” Izuna says.

“Casual intimacy in a relationship is more important than sex,” Madara replies. “But I do have an orgasm scheduled in two hours. What do you want?”

“We have a situation,” Izuna says, and that’s when Madara notices the poorly-concealed undercurrent of pain in his baby brother’s voice.

“Izuna,” Madara growls. “What did you do?”

“Found trouble where there shouldn’t have been any. More trouble might be on the way. The vegetal kind, if you get what I mean.”

Madara swears. “Send me your coordinates.”

"Yeah."

He flushes, washes his hands and exits the bathroom. He finds Hashirama waiting outside, looking at his own phone with a slight frown.

“Everything all right?” Madara asks.

“Yes...” Hashirama says, trailing off. His frown eases into a sincerely apologetic expression and he grasps Madara’s forearm. “Listen, I’m so sorry. Something came up at work, and I really need to go.”

Madara throws up a quick prayer of gratitude to the heavens at this fortunate turn of events, but pretends to be reluctant anyway so as to not rouse suspicion.

“On a Sunday?” He crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Do you really have to go?”

“Yes!” Hashirama wails. “It’s terrible, but there have been unforeseen developments. They’re handling it, but. You know how it is.”

“Oh,” Madara says, making sure to let fake disappointment bleed through his voice. “I was really looking forward to showing you the new piece I’ve been working on.”

Hashirama wilts. “Of course, Madara. I’m sorry. I’ll let them know I can’t come. I just found you; I don’t want you to think I’m putting my work over our relationship again—”

“No!” Madara yells frantically. “No, no. You better go. I’m sure they can’t manage without you.”

“Madara, you don’t need to sacrifice—”

“I’m not sacrificing anything, I know your research is extremely important. I respect that.”

“Maybe, but I just want to spend all the time I can with you, we’ve missed out on _so_ much—”

“We will have all the time in the world, just—”

They grapple awkwardly like that for a while, only stopping when both of their phones go off in simultaneous, panicked _tings_.

“Is it really okay?” Hashirama asks, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. His eyes are wide and guilty, and he looks close to bursting into tears, and Jesus. Madara feels like a lovestruck teenager again.

“Go,” he says. “But you better make it up to me, you hear?”

Madara accepts a parting hug and a quick kiss from Hashirama, swiftly shooting off in the opposite direction as soon as Hashirama disappears from sight.

* * *

He successfully rescues Izuna, who has a slight case of waterlogged lungs thanks to the terribly-named Lord Second. Because he’s feeling a bit petty, he sets First’s hair on fire as the latter tries to convince him that it’s still not too late for Madara to give up his anti-hero ways.

(“We can fight together, Ghost! I can tell we have the same goals— _agh!”_ )

Madara also guilt trips Izuna into taking his place in the annual shareholders’ meeting so that he can go spend time with Hashirama on their six-month (or six-year-and-six-month, if you were to ignore the extremely long break) anniversary when it arrives.

* * *

Hashirama, inexplicably, takes to wearing a scarf-turban thing on his head for a few days.

“You don’t like it?” He asks plaintively. “I just wanted to change things up a bit.”

Madara hates it. He can’t stand to look at it. It’s the ugliest fucking thing he’s ever seen. It makes Hashirama’s head look like a deformed, psychedelic brinjal.

However, he makes a concession this one time since he has always liked Hashirama for his personality more than he likes him for his looks (not that there was anything usually wrong with him physically, of course.)

“Oh,” Madara says, and licks his lips. He feebly tries to summon a roguish glint in his eye to make his appreciation look more convincing. “It looks absolutely divine on you, my dear.”

Hashirama’s smile is bright enough to power the entire city.

* * *

* * *

Madara is a rich, powerful guy. He can have anything he wants, if not by paying for it, then by calling upon favours from other rich, powerful people. If that doesn’t work out, he can simply take things by force and intimidation, which is his favourite tactic, by far.

But inspite of the world being his literal oyster, Hashirama still manages to make him feel spoilt, somehow. Sometimes it's the finest Cuban cigars, or tiny pieces of chocolate wrapped in gold foil. At other times, it's intricate homemade dinners consisting of things like salmon foam extruded on arugula spheres paired with alternating dots of Pinot Noir and sweet apricot gel, tastefully decorated on fickle beds of porcini soil layered with white truffle flakes. And—

“Madara,” Hashirama asks with a delicate sniff. “Are you high?”

“Huh?” Madara grunts. “It’s medicinal. You want some?”

Hashirama does, and coughs his way through the first two puffs.

(“Sorry, sorry, haven’t done this since college, haha.”)

Later, when he has his head pillowed on Madara’s lap and bare feet hanging off the edge of Madara’s couch, loose-limbed and dopey, and Madara is running his fingers through Hashirama’s (blessedly uncovered) hair, he asks, “You said this was medicinal?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“I mean, it’s a bit surprising, that’s all. You’re so,” Hashirama blushes, “Fit for your age.”

“Blood pressure,” Madara says. “It’s genetic.”

“Yes, yes,” Hashirama nods serenely. “You lot have always been particularly high strung.”

"Hey," Madara yanks Hashirama’s hair slightly. “I don’t remember _your_ family being any better.”

Hashirama simply closes his eyes and smiles. Something bluesy and jazzy croons softly in the background.

“Madara?” He says after a while.

“Hm?”

“Can I have some of your blood?”

“What do you need my blood for?” Madara asks suspiciously. Uchiha blood was a prized commodity in the black market— not that people necessarily _knew_ it belonged to the Uchiha.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I do,” Madara says and leans down to kiss Hashirama’s nose. “Very well. You can have some.”

Hashirama hums, eyes still shut. “Can you also get me the blood of as many members of your family as you can?”

“What the _fuck,_ Senju.”

“Just a little bit,” Hashirama says and burrows his cheek contentedly into Madara’s abdomen. “Trust me.”

“Okay.”

“Remember. Separate, marked vials.”

“Of course.”

This was Hashirama. His oldest friend and probably the only person he’s ever loved. Lovely, idiotic Hashirama with a too-big heart, who still got into depressive funks whenever he read about global deforestation stats and who, despite all their shared nudity and years apart, still thought it funny to creep on Madara while he tried to take a piss. Hashirama, who’s the most happy-go-lucky, unabashedly hedonistic person he knows, but is also exceptionally intelligent and thoughtful when it comes to things that really matter.

Nothing to worry about.

* * *

In separate, marked vials, Madara collects blood from all the twenty or so Uchiha milling around in the city, from the oldest (Neko-baa, who tells him he needs to eat more) to the youngest (Sasuke, who screams at him in greeting, but starts gurgling happily the moment Itachi pokes his solemn little head into the room.)

Hashirama takes the lot and all but disappears for a month, before coming back with a potted plant.

“What is this?” Madara asks dubiously. “Is this what I think it is?”

“I developed it,” Hashirama pronounces, like a proud father. “For you.”

“A cannabis plant,” Madara says. “You do know most people would generally give their partners a bouquet of roses or something, right?”

“Yes. But!” Hashirama grins. “This strain will specifically slow down your heartbeat and relax your blood vessels. I call it the Eye of the Moon. It’s a much more effective beta-blocker, responsive especially to your family’s genes. Isn’t it amazing?”

* * *

The Eye of the Moon is as effective and amazing as advertised. He smokes up with Izuna the next time they go to put the fear of God into the sex traffickers trying to smuggle out young girls in crates dockside.

And when the girls are freed and First invariably turns up to stop them from turning the traffickers into vaguely human-shaped pieces of charcoal, Madara actually finds himself grinning as they clash, instead of frothing at the mouth as he would have been otherwise.

* * *

Of course, Madara makes sure to let Hashirama know just how much he appreciates the gesture.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

“Madara…” Hashirama breathes, stunned. “This is...of course, I like it. Oh, I love it.”

“Are you sure?” Madara asks, a bit shy. “I can understand if it’s too much.”

“How can anything about you ever be too much?” Hashirama says, choking up. “This is perfect. You are perfect.” He throws himself into Madara’s arms and promptly bursts into tears.

Izuna, who lacks even a single artistic or romantic bone in his body, gags on his smoothie when he happens to see the life-sized tattoo of Hashirama’s face that Madara had gotten on his chest.

“Why would you do that?” He yowls. “Oh my _God,_ my _eyes,_ Madara. Shit. You’re hereby forbidden from ever being shirtless around me, what the actual fuck.”

“Don't make me disown you,” Madara returns easily as he rubs coconut oil into his chest.

* * *

* * *

“So,” Hashirama says airily one day. “The superhero scene here is quite well-developed, isn’t it?”

“This city has always attracted freaks,” Madara agrees. He smirks. “Why, a little too old for hero worship, aren’t you?”

Hashirama laughs, face a little pink. “Not exactly hero worship. It’s about the ideologies.”

“Any ideology in particular? Or is it only the idea of ideologies that appeals to you?”

“Ah,” Hashirama says and hesitates. “There’s actually one person I find quite interesting.”

“Oh? Who is it?”

“He goes by the name Lord First. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

And just like that, Madara’s good mood evaporates. He scoffs. “Who hasn’t heard of that loudmouthed conceited jerk?”

“...You don’t like him.”

“What’s there to like?”

“I like his methods. He always tries to resolve conflicts as peacefully as he can.”

“What a waste of potential,” Madara scoffs again. “‘A friendly hand is more effective than a thousand fists.’ Makes me want to throw up.”

“Oh,” Hashirama says in a small voice. “But you must see the merit in his dreams, Madara. There is strength in numbers and harmony. In love. Violence only begets more violence.”

“Violence gets the job _done._ Sure, some things can be dealt with peacefully. But with others, force is required. Besides," Madara adds, "My problem is not with his ideals. It’s with how he—” _tries to force them on me and refuses to accept alternative moral orientations_ “—meddles in places where he’s not really needed.”

“Oh,” Hashirama says, a calculating, faraway look in his eyes. “Meddles, huh? I see.”

The back of Madara’s neck prickles. “What are you making that face for, Senju?”

Hashirama blinks, switching expressions so smoothly to guileless that Madara thinks he might have been imagining things. “Whatever do you mean?”

* * *

Madara is a lot of things, with _paranoid fucker_ featuring high on the list, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that something very strange is going on.

He’s strolling down the street one day when he spots a crane lifting a grand piano so that it can be fitted through a building’s window. Nothing new, considering the relative width and height of doors with respect to the musical instrument. He’s directly underneath the piano when there’s a sudden gust of wind and something _twangs._

Madara’s body is moving before he can register it.

He lunges sideways, going rolling into the road just as the piano crashes down in a discordant jumble of notes in the space he had just been occupying. He sees a shadow flicker beside him, and then he’s busy spinning out of the way of an oncoming car.

“Are you alright?” The crane operator asks frantically as Madara picks himself up and dusts his dark suit with a gloved hand. The operator pales even further when he sees who he’d almost flattened. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Uchiha, sir! Please, I don’t know what happened, I’ll call an ambulance—”

Madara takes off his sunglasses and looks up at the crane’s main load line. A clean cut. It wasn’t an accident.

“That won’t be necessary,” Madara says curtly. “As you can see, no harm has been done.”

“Are you sure? Please, let me drive you home, at least.”

“There’s no need.” He glances up at the line again and then down at the mangled musical instrument on the pavement. “Please, allow me to replace the piano.”

* * *

A few days later, he’s driving down an intersection on his bike. The lights turn red and he, naturally, squeezes the breaks.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, the bike seems to get a little bit faster.

Madara curses under his breath and leaps off the bike, which spirals out of control and crashes into a fire hydrant. Again, there’s a barely-visible shadow flickering in his peripheral vision, and he suppresses the urge to activate his eyes in public and track it down.

He gets up, dusts himself, assures the crowd that he’s fine, and makes a mental note to write to the mayor to offer compensation for the destroyed fire hydrant.

* * *

The third time, it goes too far.

Madara finishes wrapping up the annual golf and lunch meeting with the Hyuga patriarch and escorts him to his car. Then he re-enters the restaurant, loosens his tie fractionally, and orders himself another much-needed glass of wine.

There's a faint beeping sound coming from somewhere nearby, and he pulls out what looks like a considerable amount of C4 from under his seat.

“GET DOWN!” He roars and kicks his way through the restaurant's window, dropping down a floor to the ground in a neat crouch, the explosives tucked under his arm. There’s too many civilians around— it’s going to be an absolute carnage if he lets the bomb explode here.

The lake, he decides and sprints through picnicking rich people, yelling at them to run in the opposite direction. His eyes follow the damn shadow flicker past _again,_ but he can’t let himself get distracted. The beeping gets more and more frantic, and he manages to toss the bomb over the lake just as it detonates. The shockwave of the explosion knocks him to the ground, simultaneously blasting lake water and flora all over him.

These are definite, precise attempts on Madara’s life. It can only mean one of the two things: either someone has put a hit out on the head of the Uchiha family, or they know that Madara is the Ghost, and are trying to draw him out. Whoever they are, they don't care about collateral damage.

Dripping wet and with pond scum in his hair, he dials Hashirama’s number.

“Madara,” Hashirama says, sounding a bit frazzled. “Hi.”

“Your life is in danger,” Madara says, cutting right to the chase. “You need to get somewhere safe. If that’s not possible, then always keep someone you trust around you. As much as I dislike Tobirama, he is best suited for the job.”

“What?” Hashirama says shrilly. “What do you mean my life is in danger?”

“Someone’s tried to kill me thrice in as many days. I don’t know why, but I believe they may come after you too to get to me.”

“What?” Hashirama says, voice getting impossibly higher. “Someone tried to kill you?”

“It’s best if we don’t see each other for a while. I will never forgive myself if I let you get caught in my problems. Expect a security detail tailing you 24/7 from this evening.”

Hashirama starts to squeak in protest, but Madara disconnects and stalks off to find Hikaku.

* * *

_Heroic Uchiha patriarch Saves Hundreds,_ the newspapers say, and eyewitnesses come out of the woodwork to talk to anyone who’d listen about the thing with the piano and the bike. Forensics reports uncover clear signs of tampering and sabotage in both cases. The Uchiha Group’s subsidiaries’ market capitalizations shoot up at the publicity caused by Madara Uchiha’s sharp thinking and services towards the community. 

Hikaku, Izuna and Madara put out feelers from the lowest dregs of society to the highest, but nothing turns up. Even so, Madara can’t get the nagging feeling out of his head, because they still have no clue who or what that damned _shadow_ was.

The family members around town beef up their security, more than capable of protecting themselves and their own. While both Fugaku and Mikoto are among the Uchiha who, despite their gifts, have chosen to not be a part of the superhero vocation (the family passtime, really), they start working from home to keep powerful superhuman eyes on their young sons. Kagami does the same with Shisui.

The weakest link in the chain that adorns Madara's heart is Hashirama, so Madara activates his eyes, turns his hair and skin white, and dons the bone-white mantle of the Ghost to keep watch over him whenever he can.

* * *

Madara’s on a roof one night, creeping over Hashirama, who’s just disappeared into the convenience store near his apartment. There’s a whoosh of displaced air behind him, followed by the distinct sound of combat boots hitting concrete, and a delicate wisp of chakra introduces his visitor.

“First,” he says tersely, without turning around.

“Ghost,” First acknowledges. “You have been following that man around for some time now. Why?”

“It’s none of your business,” Madara growls.

“Hashirama Senju is clean,” First says. “I checked. You can, therefore, imagine my concern at finding one of the most bloodthirsty, volatile men in this city stalking an innocent civilian.”

Stalking? Madara finally turns around at that. Despite his personal differences with the other superhero, First is one of the most principled people he knows. If it’s for Hashirama, he can play nice for once.

“I’m not stalking anyone,” Madara says brusquely. “I’ve been asked to look after him. Thus, I am.”

First tilts his masked face slightly. “Didn’t think you were the kind to take orders.”

“I’m here on request from a dear friend.”

“And does this dear friend of yours have a name?”

Madara’s inflamed nerves grate at the undercurrent of doubt in his voice, but he reminds himself to play nice. First’s help would be invaluable in the investigation— or in Hashirama’s protection at the very least.

“A famous one. I assume you’ve read about the recent assassination attempts on Madara Uchiha?”

Madara’s expecting a grim _Y_ _es, I have, how can I help._ What he gets instead is a strangled wheeze, which rapidly evolves into a full-blown coughing fit.

“If you’re here to waste my time,” Madara says disdainfully while First takes in huge, heaving breaths in a pathetic attempt to collect himself. His hands are braced on his knees and his impractically loose, long hair slips past his shoulders. “Just leave.”

“No, no,” First says, straightening. He clears his throat and flicks his hair back. “Ahem. I’m sorry. You just caught me by surprise, that’s all. How does an unassuming chap like Hashirama know Mr. Uchiha?”

“They’re involved romantically. Madara believes that the people who are after him may use Hashirama to get to him. I am here to ensure that never happens. I will protect Senju with my life, should the need arise.”

Another sound like a dying pig. Madara’s nostrils flare.

“If you can’t be fucking serious—”

“Sorry, sorry. Just that, it’s very admirable how far you’re willing to go for your friend.”

“I have known Madara for a while,” Madara says, feeling a bit ridiculous, but still subtly trying to impress upon First the true value of Hashirama. “By extension, I know what and how much Hashirama Senju means to Madara Uchiha. If he gets even the slightest bit of a scratch on him, rest assured—” here, he lets something dark and nasty bleed into his voice, “—this godforsaken city will burn.”

It’s quite easy to get First to promise to keep an eye on Hashirama after that.

* * *

As abruptly as they had appeared, the assassination attempts stop, with the perpetrators having disappeared into thin air. Weeks pass and nobody hears anything. There’s no chatter from any of the Uchihas' informants either, so the excess security gets dialed down after a while.

Madara hopes that they've scared off whoever it was.

Madara knows that things are rarely that convenient.

Hashirama calls him with increasing frequency and whines and cajoles and wheedles and flatters and (in one memorable moment involving some truly embarrassing phone sex) tempts him into coming out of his self-imposed quarantine. And since Madara’s always been horrible at refusing Hashirama things, he does.

But that’s okay, because Hashirama has Lord First looking out for him now too.

* * *

“Madara—” Hashirama says. “Madara?”

“What?”

“You’re frowning again.”

“Am I?” Madara scowls.

Hashirama sighs and uses the cool pads of his fingers to smoothen out the creases on Madara’s brow. “Did you take your medication?”

“I literally just smoked one right in front of you.”

Hashirama sighs again. “Is this still about the attempts on your life? It was a long time back. Don’t you think that maybe you should...move on?”

“Move on?” Madara asks incredulously. “It’s not only about _me,_ Hashirama. It’s about you and Shisui and Itachi and Sasuke. About my students, my family, the Uchiha employees or anyone else I’ve come in contact with! Innocent bystanders who have the misfortune of breathing the same air as me! Just because the fuckers have retreated for now doesn’t mean that they won’t appear again.”

“I know.” Hashirama runs light, soothing hands across his shoulders and down his arms, so that their fingers are slightly intertwined. “Come,” he says with a light tug and a gentle kiss on his knuckles. “It’s a nice night outside. Let’s take a walk. I have a feeling the wisteria will finally bloom tonight.”

* * *

Hashirama tries, he really does. Therefore, Madara tries too, to be less paranoid and antsy and to not lash out at him when he approaches, but it just doesn’t work out. He’s too wound up. To blow off steam, he becomes the Ghost and prowls the night almost obsessively, barely getting an hour or two of sleep every night as he systematically goes through every fucking _cockroach_ in the city that has the audacity to call itself human.

The cumulative stress and sleep-deprivation of the last four months finally catches up to him and he slips up one night, which is how he finds himself under a collapsed building, a steel rod half the width of his fist shoved through his lung.

Coughing hurts like fuck, but he does it anyway, out of sheer spite. He really hopes no one finds him like this because dying only because he messed up is a truly embarassing way to go.

The Uchiha will manage. Fugaku will make a good family head. Hashirama, though…

Ah, fuck. Madara’s going to end up breaking Hashirama’s heart _again,_ and he won't even get a chance to redeem himself this time.

Then, the darkness above him shifts, and a stream of dust and debris falls into his eyes. Tendrils of wood worm around the concrete above him, lifting the heavy block to reveal a tall figure silhouetted against the moonlight.

“You know what,” Madara chuckles, because spite wins out over pain again. He wraps his fingers around the rebar impaling him to the ground and manages to move it a centimetre before giving up when he whites out briefly from the pain. “For once, I’m actually glad to see you.”

* * *

Madara’s arch-nemesis carefully extracts him from under the rubble and lays him on flat grassy ground.

“What happened here?” First asks.

“I slipped,” Madara grinds out, feeling exceptionally faint.

“All right. I’m going to pull the rod out now, okay?”

“Make it quick.”

First places a hand on Madara’s chest, infusing some green chakra around the wound. With the other hand, with all the precision and steadiness of a neurosurgeon, he pulls the piece of iron out of Madara’s chest. Madara grits his teeth and doesn’t scream.

“Thanks,” he gasps once it’s done. “You can leave now.”

“Can I take you somewhere?”

“Just leave a distress signal. One of my people will come pick me up.”

“Got it,” First says seriously, and promptly starts trying to rip the front of Madara’s white top open.

Madara’s hand feebly shoots out to grip his wrist. “The hell are you doing?”

“Personal differences aside, you can’t really expect me to leave you here to bleed out, Ghost.”

“There’s no need.” He’s hardy. He won’t break; just be bedridden and extremely weak for two or three weeks, at most. “Send the signal.”

“It’ll be more efficient for you this way. I won’t look under your mask, I promise.”

Well. Madara’s petty, not stupid. The faster he heals, the faster he can get back to his patrols. He unwraps his fingers and lets his hand fall.

First takes it as the wordless permission that it is. He carefully unpeels the cloth off Madara’s mangled chest and uses it to carefully sop up the excess blood around the wound. He suddenly draws in a sharp breath, his hands stilling.

“You better not be getting weird ideas, asshole,” Madara wheezes.

After a moment of hesitation, First resumes his healing, but there’s a distinct tremble in his fingers and jerkiness in his movements that hadn’t been there before. Madara would have made a jibe about the man’s squeamishness, but having half of your ribcage and lungs being slowly knit back together is nothing short of excruciating and exhausting.

“It won’t end well for anyone if you put me under citizen’s arrest,” Madara croaks. “I’m going to pass out now.”

* * *

Hikaku tells him that First had stayed by Madara’s side till he’d arrived.

“Don’t worry,” Hikaku assures. “He actually seemed pretty eager to get rid of you after that, for once.”

Madara snorts and chooses to glower at the mechanized wheelchair that someone (probably Izuna) had left by his bed earlier as a joke.

* * *

“I slipped and fell in the bathroom,” Madara tells Hashirama with a straight face, when Hashirama asks him why he’s not moving with his usual bristling energy. “These old bones, you see.”

“I see,” Hashirama says with a tight smile.

“It’s okay,” Madara feels compelled to add when Hashirama starts looking vaguely ill. “Don’t worry. The doctor asked me to forgo physical activity only till today. We’re still on for tennis tomorrow.”

If anything, Hashirama gets even paler.

* * *

The next time he's in the midst of an...ideological dispute with First, it's weird.

Madara’s dangling a half-naked guy (a corrupt bureaucrat embezzling funds meant for an orphanage, how _shameless_ ) by the throat out of a window twenty stories high when he feels a familiar presence in the periphery of his senses. The presence is verdant and joyful and brimming with life, with an undercurrent of fey-like otherworldliness that never fails to piss him off. He looks up and sees First gazing back at him from the roof of the building across the street.

Madara ignores him and goes back to his usual routine of threatening his prey and their family in extremely gruesome ways, fully expecting First to swoop in and meddle.

Nothing happens.

It gets irritatingly awkward after a while, so Madara experimentally lets the bureaucrat go, sending him hurtling down towards the concrete screaming in terror. First reacts then, blurring into movement. The branches of a nearby black pine twist and extend, catching Madara’s target in a leafy cradle.

Madara cranes his neck out of the window and looks down. First looks back up from the pavement, masked face and all, and doesn’t say anything.

* * *

It’s a little creepy, if he’s being honest.

“Maybe he doesn’t take you seriously anymore because you almost died in his arms,” Izuna muses.

It stops being creepy and gracefully swan dives into outright degrading.

* * *

Madara calms his self-righteous rage down with great effort and goes to Hashirama, his beautiful island of peace and tranquility in a truly horrible world, for advice.

“So,” Madara says, feeding Hashirama a brilliantly red grape. “Hypothetically, there’s a coworker whom you’ve always had a mutually rivalrous relationship with. One day, due to unpredictable and therefore unavoidable circumstances, you ended up showing your weaknesses to him.”

“Hypothetically?” Hashirama says.

“Hypothetically,” Madara agrees. “And he helps you out. But then, because he caught you in a moment of weakness, this coworker thinks that you are beneath him. Just because you're human, you're not worthy of his time any mo— Shit, are you okay?” He asks, worried, when Hashirama starts coughing.

“Sorry,” Hashirama chokes out and clears his throat. Madara strokes his back soothingly. “Swallowed the wrong way. You were saying?”

“Yes, so,” Madara continues. “This hypothetical _asshole_ now thinks that he’s too good for you. You’re not worth his time any more because he thinks you’re too weak. How would you approach the situation?”

“Have I tried talking about it with him? Hypothetically, of course.”

“What will talking accomplish?”

“Madara,” Hashirama says, the hint of a pout in his voice. “Have you considered the alternative that...the hypothetical me may have misunderstood this coworker’s intentions?”

“What’s there to misunderstand?”

“What if,” Hashirama says carefully. “This coworker now respects me even more now that I have allowed myself to be vulnerable around him? What if this vulnerability has added a new dimension to how he sees me as a rival?”

“That makes no sense.”

Hashirama sighs, forlorn. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

“Damn right it doesn’t,” Madara says, and angrily stews over it for the next few days. It eats into the time and mental bandwidth he could have spent doing nice things with Hashirama, which pisses him off even more.

First the attempts on his public life, then this derogatory bullshit.

He's going to fix all of it, if that’s the last thing he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written any of the founders before, so I hope the characterization is okay haha.
> 
> Kudos, comments, and any other form of feedback appreciated. Thanks you for reading this far!
> 
> This was inspired by the "Uchiha grow their own weed" gag in the [first part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311120) of this series. I thought to myself, _how did they actually end up growing their own,_ and the answer was, obviously, HashiMada. It's a SasuNaru fic set in the same universe, so if that's your jam, please check it out!


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